


Waypoint

by DaughterOfTheWest, Skylark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Dirkjake, Illustrated, M/M, Sleep, Sleepthology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheWest/pseuds/DaughterOfTheWest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's getting late, don't you think?" you say.</p><p>"Yeah," Dirk replies, distant.  His attention is focused on scanning the tops of the pillars for any more marauding skeletons, and he straightens slightly when he finds none.  "It's fine, I already alchemized some flashlights. I think we should be able to make the next gate by—"</p><p><i>"Dirk,"</i> you say, reaching out to tap his shoulder.  "You're not seriously thinking about pressing on through the night?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waypoint

**Author's Note:**

> [DaughterOfTheWest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofthewest) provided the charming companion art, helped write the beginning of the fic, and continues to generally be the best soundboard and hand-holder anyone could ask for. <3 ([Skylark](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark) scribbled the rest, for better or worse.)
> 
> [Music](http://youtu.be/1GFCTLqSr0M).

“It’s getting late, don’t you think?” you say.

“Yeah,” Dirk replies, distant. His attention is focused on scanning the tops of the pillars for any more marauding skeletons, and he straightens slightly when he finds none. “It’s fine, I already alchemized some flashlights. I think we should be able to make the next gate by—”

 _“Dirk,”_  you say, reaching out to tap his shoulder. “You’re not seriously thinking about pressing on through the night?”

The deadpan stare Strider gives you doesn’t need to be translated from behind his shades; his mouth is ajar and the leaking silence says it all.

Your brow furrows. Your hands hurt after a day of managing recoil, and your left side aches from where you tumbled down the last hill. “You may feel like you’re all right to continue on until daybreak, but we might as well catch some rest when we can. I for one could use some shut-eye.”

“Well…” You watch his Adam’s apple bob and his mouth tighten into a thin line. He turns away from you and looks around again, sweeping over the surrounding area. Something tells you that it’s not because he’s still worried about another ambush. “All right. If you want to sleep, I’ll keep a lookout.”

You laugh. “It’s my planet,” you point out. “What kind of man would I be if I let my guest take first watch?”

“You don’t need to be chivalrous with me—” he starts.

“Nonsense,” you say cheerfully, and make a show of pulling your guns out of their holsters, grinning at him down the sights. “I’ll hold down the fort for a few hours.”

“Look, I’d just prefer to—”

“I’ll start the fire,” you say, throwing your guns back into your sylladex and pulling out flint and steel instead, “and you can go make yourself snug as a bug in a rug, how does that sound?”

“Jake,” He steps forward to grab the flint from your hand, “Just let me—”

You pull your hand out of his reach. Your voice is still jovial but your expression’s falling: “If I know you, Strider,” you say, “you’re planning to stay up all night and let me sleep the whole way through, aren’t you?”

You swear you can see the inner machinations tangle around on his face as he tries to come up with a refutation. Both of you know that any protest he could offer would be a lie. His shoulders droop and he looks away, reluctant to be defeated. A stubborn frown tugs at his lips.

With a sigh, you tell him, “There’s no need to treat me like an invalid. We’ve been getting on as partners all day, haven’t we? Guarding each other’s backs and such. You can trust me, bro.”

He whips around and you think you see a spark of hurt dance through his shaded eyes. “You’re not—it’s not about that.” Dirk pauses, “Not about you, I mean. No, wait, I don’t mean that. Well, I do, it’s just—” He winces at his own voice, “Look, it’s me, okay? I trust you. Totally. Hell, we’re partners, dude. We’re bros. And you aren’t doing anything wrong, and you completely have my trust. All of it. I just…” He lets out a long breath through his nose, sets his jaw, and spits it out, “I just don’t want to sleep right now.”

Your eyes narrow, trying to make sense of what he’s just said. “You don’t want to sleep?” you repeat. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to. Just leave it, alright?” Dirk turns and unsheathes his katana, already beginning to walk away, “I’ll grab tinder. You be ready with the flint when I get back.”

You follow him, seizing his wrist. You can feel the way his muscles tense under your grip, how the contraction ricochets up his whole body as he stiffens in automatic response, but you don’t let go. “Strider,” you say, tugging at him. “There’s no need to go sprinting off like a plush glossy jackrabbit in the middle of hunting season. What’s this really about?” When he doesn’t respond, a thought occurs to you. “You’re not afraid of the  _dark_ , are you?” you blurt. “Not to say that there’s anything wrong with that of course—”

“Jake…”

“Every man has his kryptonite but I just didn’t—expect—anyway Dirk don’t you fret, I’ll get a fire started in a trice and—”

“Jake.”

“—I’ll take care of it, I’ll be back in a—oh—but will you keep here by yourself while—”

“JAKE.”

You cringe a little, throwing him a sheepish smile as you stumble to a halt. “Um. Yes?”

Dirk eases and you think he’s staring you down from behind his shades. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

You nod, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. “Well, then, what  _is_  the holdup? Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. Scout’s honor,” you say and gesture crossing your heart with your index finger.

“I don’t want to sleep because…” Suddenly his face falls and he looks positively droopy, like a double-mouthed feline monster caught outside in the rain. “I don’t like it,” he grimaces, “I’m not used to it. It’s scary, I guess, in the way that voluntary bouts of complete and utter unconsciousness seem pretty fucking scary.”

You start to laugh, and immediately feel terrible when he glowers at you. “Sorry! It’s just so peculiar to think of it that way when to most people sleeping can be the best part of the day.” You scratch the back of your neck, wincing at Dirk’s nonplussed expression. How do you explain something as nebulous and innately human as  _sleep_  to someone? Sometimes when you were home you’d try to sleep for days. You realize then that he’s never really slept before, that his dream self is very recently deceased.

“I suppose I can see how you’d find it frightening,” you try again. “But it’s really rather…relaxing?”

He shrugs and sits down against a pillar, leaning his head back against the cool stone. It’s at about this point you remember “relaxing” is hardly a word in Dirk’s colloquial lexicon.

“Look, it’s something I have to work on. I’ll deal with it. Whatever.” He’s so terse. How can he be so damnably terse?

You sit down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. “Don’t be like that,” you say. “You said we’re partners. If you’re having trouble, we’ll solve it together.” You tap your finger against your chin, thinking. You can feel Dirk breathing beside you; even his steady exhales are silent and unobtrusive. He spends so much time trying not to be a burden, so much effort trying to keep to himself. Wouldn’t it just be easier to let go, for once?

You grin suddenly. “Strider!” you say, turning to him. You kick your legs out straight in front of you and slap your thighs. “Your head, my lap. Straightaway!”

He jumps and flounders, speechless. He fumbles and spits out half of a “What?” before you wrench him into a headlock.

“If you’re worried about relaxing, I have it on very good authority that putting your head in someone’s lap is a surefire way to unwind. Come on, give it a go!”

Dirk studies you once you’ve wrestled his head onto your thighs. A fleeting thought taps you on the shoulder and wonders if you didn’t go too far. Did you just harm your broship by suggesting something so, well, suggestive? Satan’s knickers, what if he—

“Just for a minute,” Dirk says, and his voice is tight. His acceptance sets off a queer little shiver in your chest.

“Right then,” you say, and lean back to counter the unfamiliar weight against your thighs. You open your mouth and then think better of it, remembering that you’re supposed to be letting him count meteors or electric sheep or whatever it is that they count in the future. You look down at his inscrutable shades and give him a smile that you hope isn’t nervous. Manly lap-resting is totally something that best bros do, right? Right.

Despite your years of friendship, almost everything about Dirk is unfamiliar—his warmth seeping through your shorts, the rise and fall of his chest. A million thoughts cross your mind, but when you glance down at his profile you forget them all. He’s turned away from you with his cheek on your thigh, his hair still obscuring his eyes from view. You’ve wondered what color they are for years.

The fluttery feeling in your chest has dropped to your stomach. This close to him you can see the freckles half-concealed by his shades and dusted across his shoulders.

Dirk frowns when you shift your weight to free one of your hands. “Sorry, bro,” you say. You move to touch his shoulder and his skin dimples underneath your roughened fingertips. He tenses a little at the contact and then breathes out, slow. You run your fingers across his collarbone up to his cheek.

“May I?” you say, and reach for his shades. He grabs your wrist and you’re not surprised, but then,

“I’ll do it.”

He pushes up onto his elbows, and you think you see him pass you one last veiled glance before he reaches up and pulls the glasses from his face. His eyes are closed when he takes them off, but you don’t comment—there’s so much else to learn about him, the sharp angles hidden in all of his joints, the way he moves with such careful precision, how even his stillness has intent. He tucks the shades into his shirt collar and folds his arms before lying face-up on your lap again. The corner of his mouth tugs sideways, the expression somewhere between wry and anxious.

You swallow and look up: away from his mouth, from him. Twilight on your planet is a slow burn of deep purple and airy pink, a spectrum of saturated blues congealing along the horizon. You rest your weight against the pillar at your back, feeling enclosed by the Stonehenge around you both. LOMAX is riotous with greenery, buried treasure, and puzzles that would take you days to solve. It’s like home, but it’s an entire planet that you have to fill up rather than a single island; when you first arrived here you shouted into the empty air and felt a stab of despair when the echoes returned to you untouched.

The excitement set in later, when Dirk appeared and you tackled him to the ground, pounding him on the back so hard he started coughing. It’s been fizzing underneath your skin all day, but now it’s settling, turning into something quieter and harder to name. You’re tired after a day of company and hunting, of watching him watch you out of the corner of his eye. Being with another human is exhausting: you’re out of practice, your long-underused voice feels hoarse after a day of talking, you never want to leave his side.

“What a day!” you say. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a good time in all my life.”

He snorts. “Not even when you felt the first fluttering palpitations of love for Neytiri, and swore yourself to the defense of cerulean babes everywhere?”

You try not to blush. “Few things can top a blue beauty of Neytiri’s caliber, I must admit,” you stammer. But the sun is setting, and Dirk’s head is in your lap; your worries burst like soap bubbles. When his head lolls to the side, you steady it with your hand. His eyes squeeze more tightly shut at the added contact, but he says nothing.

An idea strikes you. Without asking, your hand moves up to brush his temple, hesitates, and then threads into his hair, fingers fanning out against his skull. You expect him to kick up a fuss about his perfect hairdo, but he doesn’t. His hair is softer than you expected. Your hand moves and the spikes come apart and his breath hitches, so quiet you barely catch it except for the sudden rise of his chest.

You do it again, just to see what happens. This time he doesn’t react at all.

“My grandma used to do this to me,” you tell him. You touch your hand to his forehead and smooth it back, feeling his hair skim through your spread fingers. The perpetual tiny crease between his eyebrows eases. You do it again, and again.

A few minutes pass and your thoughts narrow to the fine strands tickling your palms. His face is getting harder to make out through the gathering dark, but he seems more peaceful than you can remember seeing him before. You release a breath and let your mind wander.

When you were young, your grandma would hum to you when you had trouble sleeping, wordless, tuneless, the tempo of her voice set by the rise and fall of her hand petting your hair. Years later, when rainy seasons would trap you inside with only a dwindling food supply and a wifi connection for company, you would lay spread-eagled on your bed and let memory work its way through your fingers, learning how to comfort yourself after your grandma was gone.  _Easy, my boy,_  she would say to you—the child with his head cradled in her lap.  _Everything will be fine._

You’ve forgotten what her voice sounds like, but you’ve never forgotten the memory.

You manage to lull Dirk into a restful daze before he starts, his hands flying out to search for his sword. You grab for his face to steady him, and his left hand comes up to clutch at your own as his eyes open wide. They’re a startling, brilliant orange; for a moment you’re surprised, and then you wonder why you expected anything else. He stares at you, and you can see relief flick through his expression when his free hand finds his katana. His mouth is open but it takes him a few tries to say anything, and when he does, “What—” stumbles thickly over his tongue.

“Easy,” you murmur. “It’s me, it’s Jake, I’ve got you.”

His eyes squeeze shut and then open halfway, bewildered. His grip is uncomfortably tight on your hand so you move it away from his face, rearrange it so your fingers are interlaced. Your other hand returns to soothing strokes across his scalp, and he gives a long sigh.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and scratch lightly, and his eyes drift closed again. His hand relaxes around yours, and you guide it back to his stomach. He lets go of his katana and shifts to fold his arms again before settling.

“Go on and sleep, Dirk,” you whisper. “I’ll keep watch.”

He mumbles something you can’t hear, his head sagging back against your stomach. You lean forward and watch the tension gradually fall away from his mouth. His lips are thin and chapped, and the arch of his upper lip causes something to catch in the back of your throat. You swallow, but it doesn’t help.

Dirk’s features appear statuesque in the low light. You think about how you’d run your fingers across the half-naked figures that wreathed the deepest chambers of the jungle ruins, the cold stone nothing like the boy you’re touching now—his skin isn’t as rough as all that, nor as—hard—

Dirk is really rather close to your groin, you realize.

You freeze, but his eyebrows pinch when your hand stops moving so you start again, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. It’s nothing, you think. So your best friend is a handsome devil, anyone could have told you that.  _He_ could have told you that. In fact, you’re sure he has at some point and—oh, blast, you’re thinking in circles again and none of it changes the fact that Strider’s mouth is—well—

You swallow again. It isn’t criminal, is it, to find your best bro attractive? And certainly you’ve thought once or twice over the past few years that he might happen to find you similarly appealing? All those-not-so subtle hints and—

You recall how startled he’s been every time you’ve clapped him on the shoulder or brushed against him today, but never once did he flinch away. Even when you literally dragged him into this harebrained scheme to catch a snooze, he didn’t put up a whisper of resistance. You look down at the boy in your lap and you think, this isn’t so bad, is it?

No, you answer yourself. This is certainly something a fellow could get used to.

You look at his lips again and firmly decide to put it from your mind. It’s not a train of thought for tonight, anyway; it’s too late. You can think about it tomorrow. Next week, perhaps. Whenever you have the time. You turn your attention back to him, fingers lightly scratching their way across his scalp.

As the minutes pass, his breathing evens out and the last bits of sunlight leach from the cloudless sky. Finally, you realize that he’s asleep—he’s  _asleep_ , and a stupid feeling of accomplishment blooms in your chest.

You continue to run your fingers through his hair until your fingertips feel numb, and then you lean back with a satisfied sigh and look across the dark hills. You should start a fire, but you’re still warm from the last faded bits of sunlight, and Dirk’s body radiates heat beside you. Your grandma would forgive a survival skills slip-up just this once, you think.

You look down at Dirk, more peaceful than you’ve ever known him to be in his life. And what strikes you—more than the pale lashes that skim across his freckled cheekbones, more than the gentle whistle of breath through his teeth—is the fact that he  _trusts_  you; and you think that maybe he’s never trusted anyone before, and maybe this means something after all.

 


End file.
